


Five Gifts Loki Graced Clint With (And One Demand)

by seikaitsukimizu



Series: Clint Barton's 5 (+1) Trilogy [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con References, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seikaitsukimizu/pseuds/seikaitsukimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you really think the Widow could free my influence so simply?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Gifts Loki Graced Clint With (And One Demand)

1\.   
He notices it almost three months after the Initiative, after the invasion, after Loki’s been dragged back to Narnia or wherever his punishment would be. They’re on an op, him and Natasha. Nighttime raid, taking out some high rollers the Kingpin has been using to smuggle weapons to HYDRA. Widow is on the ground and Coulson—still alive, Fury that manipulative bastard—is in his ear. “Targets acquired.”

_“Hold until Widow makes her move.”_

Clint doesn’t need to respond. He’s been with these two long enough that they don’t need to talk to understand each other. He takes a quick glance at the truck shipment, and that’s when he notices movement behind Natasha. He doesn’t think, just shifts and lets the arrow fly, piercing the man’s heart with one shot. His second arrow arrives an instant later, through the second man’s neck. 

It gives away their presence, but Natasha uses the stunned moment to strike out and smash the ringleader’s head into a crate, knocking him out so he can be questioned later. She’s leaping into battle the next instant, even as Clint gets into the zone and strikes target after target. He’s trying for incapacitation, but his instincts are for kill shots, and he doesn’t fight them too much. One miscalculation could mean his partner’s life. 

It’s over in minutes, and Coulson’s calling for a cleanup when Clint finally notices his scope’s infrared is off. It’s nearing two am, he’s three buildings away, and there’s almost no visibility. Yet he can clearly make out Natasha as she secures their target, her hair as vibrant in the dim alley light as it is at noon. He can pick out details too, even the writing on the side of the van; black letters on a shadowed surface.

He steps away from the ledge and activates his comm. “Boss, we may have a situation.”

He’s on the ground by Natasha and their groaning captive when the SUV arrives. He practically drags the agent out of the shotgun seat and pulls the rearview mirror towards him. 

His eyes are almost normal, save for the green, rings circling his pupils. They’re actually rotating slowly, and are just dim enough to not draw immediate attention. He doesn’t startle, but when Widow looks at his eyes, really looks, she tenses up. “Mutant ability,” she suggests as she starts the car. 

He doubts it. He’s far past the age of emerging mutant powers, and the chromosome—dormant or not—would have appeared on SHIELD’s tests when he joined up. Medical confirms it, unable to see the strange effect until they place him in a dark room. He can see them through the two-way observation mirror, their frantic scribbling, shaking of heads, their uncertainty.

Coulson doesn’t do anything but watch him. When the doctors leave he rests one hand over his chest, briefly. Clint swallows. 

Three months, and he’s almost tamed the nightmares, almost successfully turned his memory away from that time under Loki’s control. Coulson wouldn’t suggest it if he didn’t think it relevant. Taking a breath, he combs through his mind, brushing the barriers he’s carefully set up aside, and tries to find the perfect perch from which he can remember from a distance rather than relive the ordeal.

His eyes are closed, he realizes, and he opens them, needing to see Coulson, Natasha, anyone, to anchor himself from falling into that abyss. The lights are on now, and his eyes don’t even need time to adjust. It’s all he needs to remember how sharp his senses were under Loki’s hand. How in the dark, in the light, high winds or shadowed corridors, he could see perfectly. Perfect eyes for his perfect Hawk. 

_My lovely soldier._

He feels himself choke at the voice, but before he can be lost, be dragged back to that time, someone shakes him lightly. He reacts immediately, clutching at the person’s arms, feels the muscles as the person holds him back, and he snaps back, staring into the blue eyes of Captain America. He finds himself matching the man’s breathing pattern, and carefully, gently, he panic leaves him.

Clint can feel his nails digging into the man’s arms, but Steve doesn’t even flinch. As he slowly lets go of the man, Clint can see the skin isn’t even bruised. Right. Super soldier. After looking him over, Steve releases him as well, but doesn’t back away. “I get it, you know.”

Clint feels himself tense up. “What?”

“Hyper senses,” he continues. “It takes getting used to. You zone out, and if you don’t have an anchor…” He winces then. “Glad I got here in time.”

Clint offers an uncertain smirk at his words. Of course news of his improved eyes has spread, and it figures the Captain would be the first to respond. He hasn’t made the connection, though, hasn’t tied it with the events months ago. Hell, it’s only speculation on his part, too. 

At a glance to the two-way mirror, he sees Coulson is still there. After all this time, he knows Phil saw how he fell apart, how he’s unlocked the nightmares once again. He nods subtly, and receives the same gesture in return, before the man spins on his heels to leave.

Clint doesn’t need his improved sight to see how rattled his handler is. 

2\.   
It’s an alien invasion this time, two weeks later. They call themselves the Kree, and consider themselves the police force of the universe. One is on their side, a Captain Mahr-vehl, and is trying official channels to stop this incursion. It also allows him to deftly defend the Helicarrier with Fury, and Clint has to marvel—hah—at how much trust SHIELD has in the ex-spy. 

Then again, considering the Avengers Team roster, it’s not that surprising. 

They’re in New York again, and he’s jumping from rooftop to rooftop as best he can. There’s no one nest for him. He has to keep moving, keep dodging. The Kree battle-suits grant flight and firepower, and while his arrows can take them down by hitting their wristband, he’s still only downing one for every ten potshots they aim at him. 

Thor and Iron Man are in the sky, keeping the next deployment vessel from landing. The others are busy trying to contain the army on the ground, surrounding the landed ship in Central Park. He’s running low on arrows and making for another jump when one soldier finally gets smart and strikes at the building, rather than him. His footing for the leap is terrible, but not impossible. He’s confident he can make it to the next roof, until Kree blasts take out his landing as well. 

“Fuck.” He pulls out the one grappling arrow he has, but his angle’s wrong, and more Kree are targeting buildings, keeping him from finding something stable. Well, he’s not going down without taking a bastard or two with him. His shot with the hook digs into the nearest Kree wristband, which makes the alien crash into two of his companions and then four of them are falling. He tries to use their bodies as leverage, but they’ve cut the line and he’s in freefall. 

Sixty stories up, next stop, brain splatter and death. “Don’t suppose anyone’s available to catch a wayward archer?”

_“Hawkeye?!”_ Of course it’s Coulson, who’s on the ground, armed with another prototype gun and a damage-resistant battle uniform Stark made just for him. _“Damnit, Iron Man and Thor are two minutes out. The Hulk,“_ there’s a roar and the sound of metal tearing from the ship on the ground, _“is unavailable,”_ he finishes. 

“Right.” Clint licks his lips. “Watch your back, Phil. Nat, kick his ass if he gets stabbed again.”

_“Barton!”_

He shuts his eyes and spreads his arms. He has thirty seconds before impact, and he’s not going to watch that. He does the countdown in his head, but when he hits thirteen he realizes the airflow has changed. It’s not so much flying around him because he’s plummeting as it is flowing around and under him. Gravity doesn’t seem to be pulling him as much either, and when he actually feels himself decelerating, his eyes snap open of their own accord, ready to thank whoever caught him. 

Except he’s not been caught. 

He can still hear Phil and Tony and all of them calling his name in his ear. 

And he’s not so much falling as…gliding. Gliding on wind currents. Like a hawk. 

Like a hawk. 

The laughter comes from deep inside, that crystal clear moment when everything just seems so absurd but you know it’s going to work out. That instant between snapping under the pressure and realizing the insanity is completely natural. 

So he lets himself laugh hysterically as he rolls to the ground, coming up with his bow out to continue shooting at the Kree. He laughs until he’s out of ammo, and then Coulson is there dragging him under cover and holding him until his throat aches and a sob comes out and he clutches at his bow like a lifeline, his body trembling as the adrenaline ebbs away. Coulson maintains his guard, coordinating the anti-Kree offensive over the radio. 

When it’s over, Clint still can’t explain it, can’t even fathom how it happened, or why. Coulson is able to coax it out of him, the whole minute between falling and landing safely. When the medics arrive, his handler speaks with them, and after a quick once-over, they leave him alone. 

“Shouldn’t medical check me out?”

“For what, Barton? We both know the tests will be the same.”

We don’t know, Clint wants to say, because he doesn’t want to admit his suspicions—their suspicions—are right. “Am I grounded, sir?”

Coulson doesn’t answer him for a few minutes, taking the time to look over the fallen Kree now being removed by SHIELD personnel. They both know the real question is, is he compromised. Clint doesn’t want to think so, but if these abilities are from Loki…

“Iron Man’s coming to return you to the Tower,” Coulson says abruptly. “Take a few days downtime.” He doesn’t look in Clint’s direction. “I don’t want to see you at SHIELD unless there’s an emergency.”

“Boss-“

“Hawkeye.” Clint feels himself tense at that. “We need time.” When he turns towards him, Clint sees the bruises under his eyes, the weight on his shoulders. “We don’t have confirmation,” he says less harshly. “We’ll debrief after the initial cleanup.”

“And Fury’s cool with that?”

“Who do you think wants you under the eyes of four Avengers?”

Clint recognizes that tone. It’s his business as usual one, and so familiar that Clint is able to bury his surprise. Of course Coulson’s kept Fury appraised of the situation. He bites his cheek as Tony arrives, and leaves with him without looking at his handler again. 

They’re almost at Stark Tower when Tony clears his throat. “So did you upgrade your boots? Steal some SHIELD anti-grav belt? Because I’ve had JARVIS scan you and so far I’m not seeing any upgrade in your armor, which, really, I should look into that. Is your vest bulletproof? I’m thinking it’s only got some impact shielding-“

“I’m not your Ken doll, Stark.” He tries to keep his voice steady. “And if you want to see me out of uniform, you should just ask.”

“I can still drop you.” There’s a pause. “But that’s not much of a threat now, is it.”

Clint feels his muscles lock up. Tony saw, or has figured it out. He swallows and says, “True. Natasha would kill you.”

“We both know that’s not what I mean.” And then they’re landing, Clint to the side of Stark’s landing platform, and Tony already walking down, JARVIS removing the armor as he goes. “SHIELD medical has a note about your eyes a couple weeks ago.” And it doesn’t surprise Clint Tony knows that. “You’re changing.” He’s already heading to the bar. “Martini?”

Clint leans against the windows—the window that Loki shattered months ago—crosses his arms and shakes his head. “I’m not a mutant.”

“Of course not. Which leaves only three options. One, you’re developing experimental technology on the sly which, let’s face it, you’re not clever enough to keep from me.” Clint has to roll his eyes at that. “Two, you’ve always had these abilities, and you’ve either repressed them or kept them hidden which, again, doubtful since Coulson wouldn’t want you to hold back. Or three, magic.”

Clint keeps absolutely still, not wanting to give anything away. 

Tony pours his drink into a glass without taking eyes off him. “Now, since we’ve only encountered two people with magic and Thor would’ve mentioned something by now, there’s only one answer.”

Clint meets his gaze. Then, carefully, he grinds out, “I’m not compromised.”

Tony waves that away, brow furrowing. “Obviously.” At Clint’s raised eyebrows, he smirks. “Natasha would be giving you another cognitive reboot if that were the case.” Which is true, she would notice the change before anyone else, other than Phil. “I just meant we don’t know the full aftereffects on a human after exposure to the Tesseract. Or Asgardian magic.” He frowns for a minute. “We should contact Selvig, check if he’s having the same issues.”

Clint doubts it, but he’s not about to announce that. “So what’re you saying?”

He sips his drink and gets a twinkle in his eye. “I was wondering if you wanted some help discovering exactly what you can do.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that, but he must seem to agree, since the next day he’s in one of Tony’s lab, electrodes on his head and over his heart. The testing gives him something to focus on, to pull himself back together. He learns he can levitate briefly, and run across short distances on air. He doesn’t need his arms out to glide like a hawk, he can just do it at will, no posturing, no stance needed. 

And it’s awesome. He no longer has to fear falling off buildings, or jumping blindly out of a plane. He grins widely when Tony jokes that he’s finally a true credit to his codename. 

It’s only when he’s alone that he lets the facade fade, and he remembers what—who—unmade, then remade him before. And if it means his soul is even his anymore. 

3\.   
Clint’s starting to see a pattern, how he’s getting his abilities under times of stress. There’s a good four month downtime with minor skirmishes and no end of the world issues. He’s gotten the hang of air-running without his heart trying to escape through his throat, and the stunt he pulled jumping off the top of Stark Tower is still running in the tabloids. Phil had been furious, but it was still exhilarating. Liberating, even.

Who knows how long Loki would let him keep that feeling. If he wasn’t sure before he was behind these events, he is—they all are—after his next new trick. 

AIM develops a pseudo-Hulk version of Mutant Growth Hormone and broke out a dozen psychopaths from Riker’s to test it on. Unless they get paid, of course. SHIELD isn’t going to pay, but they stall. Stall long enough for the Avengers to find their lair and barge right in ready to take them down.

Stall long enough for them to fall into a trap. AIM wants the money, but they want the Avengers more. Hulk seems to be their primary target, but the Captain is a close second. Iron Man is taken out by some EMP power, and Clint finds himself fighting Widow, trying to snap her out of the mesmerization one criminal is using on her. 

It’s bringing back bad memories, but the mutant-wannabe seems to only affect one target at a time. They’re lucky he targeted Widow, rather than Hulk or Tony. 

Speak of the devil. “Little help here? JARVIS still can’t get me online.”

Clint grunts, but smirks at the sound of bone meeting hammer. Thor’s already taken three down. With luck, he’ll find the one controlling Natasha soon. 

“These creatures are most foul!” There’s thunder in Thor’s voice, and the hammer flies through the air, just missing another murderer’s head.

“Have to agree with you there,” he says to be cheeky. He barely dodges the knife Widow slashes in front of his eyes. She’s not holding back, having already shattered his bow and sliced the strap of his quiver. He’s down to his blades, and he’s sort of regretting the no-arms option of his armor. “Think you can find the hypnotist?”

“I shall endeavor to end his possession of Black Widow expediently.” With that, Thor’s throwing himself across the warehouse, and there’s a hum as power starts back up in Tony’s suit. 

Which is just enough of a distraction to allow Widow to stab him in the bicep of his shooting arm. She digs the blade deep enough to pierce the muscle and scrape bone. He drops one knife on reflex, and she knocks the other one away before giving him a roundhouse kick that sends him back a few feet. He lets out a curse and as she pounces towards him, instinctively holding up his hands as if a bow was there to block her strike. 

And in the next second, one is. 

The clang of metal rings across the vast room and her dagger shatters when he twists the bow, giving him a chance to kick her back and get to his feet. The pain in his arm is excruciating, making the edges of his vision fuzzy, but he remains sharp enough to spin around her next attack—another knife, this one from her boot—and slam it against the back of her head. He takes another second to hit her again, and he makes sure she’s out before turning his attention elsewhere. 

He goes to pick up his quiver and his arm quakes, making him cry out as it starts going numb. He bites his lip and ducks behind one of the few intact crates. “Coulson, where the fuck-“

_“Backup’s ETA is forty seconds, Hawkeye. Status?”_

He risks a look around the box. “Cap and Widow are down. Iron Man’s retreated.” Not far, but like Clint, away from the main carnage. “They’re trying to isolate Hulk. I’ve lost Thor.” He does a quick count. “Seven hostiles down.”

_“Hold tight, Hawkeye.”_ Which is all the warning he gets before one wall of the warehouse blows. A second later two dozen SHIELD marines storm in, led by Coulson, once again in his battle uniform. Thanks to Tony’s sense of humor it still looks like a suit, but it’s designed to be tougher than kevlar. No experimental gun this time, just a tranq rifle. He shoots one of the MGH thugs three times before they’re down, but it gives Hulk enough room to focus on the other two. 

Clint is about to stand when he sees it. The psychopath with camouflage abilities appears right behind Coulson, blade raised to behead his handler. He doesn’t think. He reacts. He ignores the pain, pulls the string of his bow and fires before he realizes he has no arrows. 

Except there’s one right between the man’s eyes, the sword about to strike Phil falling harmlessly to the ground. The pain catches up with him then, and he falls over, releasing his grip on the miracle bow. 

Two days of intensive medical treatment later, he’s in Stark Tower surrounded by his teammates and like before, he wishes the bow into his hand. It appears, sleek and silver, or maybe white gold, but light in his hand. The wire appears to be metal, and strung perfectly between the two branches. The outer ends are bladed, and there are curling trusses on the bow itself that look more like carved wood than something forged in metal. The grip fits perfectly in his palm, and around the rim are small runes. 

It’s beautiful. The most perfect bow he’s ever held. 

“Hrotti,” Thor says with a loud intake of breath. 

Everyone looks at him, save Clint. He knew it was Asgardian. Just a feeling. He tightens his grip, his knuckles turning white. 

It’s Steve that breaks the silence. “What’s Hrotti?” 

Thor leans back in his seat, his eyes distant. “When we were younger, my brother Loki was made to make reparations to the dragon Fafnir for the slaying of Otr. When Fafnir was slain by Sigurd, Loki retook the sword Hrotti from the dragon’s horde. To hide it from both father and Sigurd, he went once more to the Sons of Ivaldi, and the dwarves remade the blade into a bow.” 

He reaches out to touch the weapon. “It is said the bearer of this weapon shall never be unarmed, or want of any arrows.” He pulls his hand away and ducked his head. “It has been one of Loki’s prized possessions, fit only for his chosen warrior to wield until Ragnarok.” The last is said in a quieter voice, worry self-evident in its tone. 

Clint drops the bow like it burned him, and it vanishes again. “No.” He doesn’t like the way his voice shakes. “No,” he forces himself to say more firmly. “I don’t want it.” He turns to Thor. “Can you take it back?”

Thor shakes his head. “Once bestowed, like Mjollnir, only its owner and his,” he pauses, “and its master may summon it.” 

Clint pulls his hands under the table and clenches them into fists, fighting the tremors for all its worth. No one can look at him, until he turns to Coulson. The agent’s face is utterly blank, but Clint can see the tension in his shoulders, the Zen calm as he sets down the pen he was taking notes with. When their eyes meet, there’s a fire raging, and for a moment Clint feels safe, protected. This is his handler, the man who will do anything for his team. 

“Why,” Tony asks. “I mean, yes, sure, Loki got a little fixated, but it’s not like he’s sending powers or presents to Selvig. I know. I checked.” He ignores Coulson’s disapproving scowl. “So why’s he sending Barton gifts? It’s not like he controls him anymore.” 

Natasha glares at Stark for that, and Clint can feel his spine go ramrod straight. Steve chides him with a “Tony.” 

Thor, however, shakes his head. “Only my brother could answer that. And Odin has not yet released him from his punishment for his latest actions.”

Then how is he getting to me, Clint wants to ask. What does he want from me, and when will it finally end claw at his throat as well. He stays silent, though. Thor has no answers. No one does. 

When the meeting breaks up, Coulson intercepts Clint before he can get on the elevator. “I’m having JARVIS monitor you.” He pulls out a radio and, mindful of the arm in a sling, eases it onto Clint’s ear. “I’ll be tuned to your frequency at all times.” For a moment, the agent is gone and Phil trails a hand down his good arm. “We won’t let him get you again. I promise.”

Clint nods, wanting to believe in him so much. 

It’s Thor who steps into the elevator with him, rides with him down to the floor with their rooms. He suspects Tony could design a floor for each of them, but keeps them close together, and not just for Clint’s sake. 

“I apologize for my brother’s tricks,” the god says as they arrive. “I have said he should make reparations, but,” he shakes his head. “No, I do not believe our Father would allow this.” 

Clint fights the roil of his stomach. “He is imprisoned, right buddy?” He tries to keep the fear from his voice. He’s an assassin. An Avenger. 

“He is.” Thor rests a hand on his shoulder. “I do not know how he is doing this, my friend, but I will not let him breach our defenses. These tricks will not sway us.” 

Clint can’t help but ask, “So why do you miss him?” Thor stops walking, letting Clint go. Clint takes a few paces more, then turns and watches the God of Thunder. He can read the conflict on the man’s face. “I shouldn’t have-“

“He is my brother,” Thor interrupts. “We grew up together, fought and feasted and explored all of Asgard. He is hurting, and though I will not let him unleash his pain upon this world again-“

Clint swallows and runs his hand through his hair. “You can’t help but love him,” he finishes quietly. 

Thor nods. “You understand?”

Clint doesn’t mention his brother, doesn’t let himself open the door in his mind of their history, or the terrible way it ended. He just nods. “Yeah, Thor. I really do.”

Thor pulls him into a hug, again careful of his wound, and Clint makes himself relax into it. “I am sorry, my friend.” Thor repeats. “These gifts may be a trick, but I know you can resist him.” He pulls back. “You are strong, Eye of the Hawk. Loki will not succeed in his deception because of this.”

Clint slips a small smile onto his face. “Thanks buddy.” He lets Thor walk him the last few feet to his room, then ducks in with a clap on the arm and a promise to talk again at breakfast. 

When the door closes, though, he lets out a long sigh. He hesitates for a minute, then can’t help but summon the bow—Hrotti—again. He stares at it, tests its balance, its heft. It’s perfect. 

It’s poison. 

_You have heart._

Taking a ragged breath, Clint slides down the wall and tucks his head to his knees, the weapon dangling from his fingers. 

4\.   
For the next nine weeks, Clint strives not to use any of the “gifts” Loki has sent him. He uses his scope as much as possible, though now his eyes are actually more accurate, and he ends up breaking this taboo the most. He no longer tries to skip through the air, except for the two times when he would’ve died otherwise. And the bow…the bow he locks deep in his conscious and only lets out in the dead of night, when he can admire its beauty without the risk of actually using it. He tried ignoring it, but there was a physical pang when he did, and so he wills it to his hands once or twice a week, feeling his soul weep at not using the perfect weapon. 

He refuses to use it in battle, or even on the range. He knows if he shoots even once, he won’t be able to stop. Sometimes, his hands sweat with the effort to not give into the urge. 

Coulson’s not the only one who’s noticed, but Clint’s pretty sure he’s the only one who knows why. 

They don’t talk about it. 

The next week, though, it all goes to shit. Not HYDRA or AIM, not gods or aliens, not even renegade mutants. No. He’s sent undercover into a neo-Nazi group called National Force. Their goals are pretty cliché, focused on white supremacy, the genocide of other races, and using any means to obtain their goals. Recently, they’ve been a little too successful in planting bombs and causing ‘accidents’ for people in power that don’t agree with them. 

Ironically, they worship Tony Stark, and the group in New York really wants to get their hands on Thor. He’s perfect, except for that pesky non-Christian nonsense. Clint works his way in through that, acting as a Stark employee with access to the Avengers. It’s not hard to keep up the masquerade, feeding harmless information and slowly gaining the trust of the group’s lieutenants. 

Unfortunately, his luck runs out when he finally meets the head of this chapter. Fucking Senator Wright, who’s met Hawkeye personally, identifies him halfway across the room. He takes out a good dozen of them before he’s overwhelmed. He crushes the fake molar, sending a distress call, but he’s knocked out shortly after that. 

He’s guessing the hit left his false tooth behind in the last compound. He’s been a captive for five days, and there’s no sign of rescue. He’s not foolish enough to give up hope, he’s been in worse situations and Natasha or Coulson have pulled him out. And hell, he knows the risks. They all do. He laughs as they beat him, and stays silent when they break his fingers. He wants to summon Hrotti, but he knows he’d never be able to grip it, not even in defense now. A small cry escapes when they break his collar bone, but he refuses to give them anything else. 

On day six, a beaten Coulson, his suit torn and bloody, is thrown to the floor in front of him. Clint pulls instinctively at the manacles holding him up, but even free, his broken ankle would keep him from moving to his handler. One of Coulson’s eyes is swollen shut, but the other glares at him. 

Say nothing. Help is coming. 

And then they start cutting into him, and Clint bites his tongue to keep the whimpers quiet. If they think Coulson—Phil—an Agent of SHIELD will break by watching this, they’re even bigger idiots than he gave them credit for. One thug, the one Clint calls Chuckles, slides the blade between Clint’s ribs and nicks his lung. He’s been expecting it. Chuckles took some perverse pleasure breaking the famous hands of Hawkeye. This is just the next step. 

Coulson doesn’t even blink. Clint can’t hear the lieutenant in the room, can’t hear the taunts, as blood rushes through his ears and he struggles to breathe, blood leaking into throat. His eyelids flutter slowly, and he lets a grunt escape when the knife tries to penetrate his femur. Chuckles neatly avoids the vein. He’s good. Done this sort of thing before. 

After a small eternity, they back away from him. He lets out a wet cough, then jerks in his bonds as Chuckles turns and slams the weapon into Coulson’s shoulder up to the hilt. This time, Coulson flinches, but he still stays silent. 

A presence by his head speaks over the roaring. “You don’t want us to gut the pig? Then talk, jackoff.” Chuckles yanks the knife out and brings it to Coulson’s stomach, pressing it against the exposed purpling skin. 

Coulson is as ready to die as Clint. He knows that. The problem is, Clint doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Phil to die. He strains at the rough metal of his wrists. Blood escapes his lips as he struggles to take in air. He’s not sure if it’s to give in, or to give himself one last surge of energy to fight, to resist, to save his handler. Maybe even himself. 

What comes out, though, is a soul-curdling scream as his blood burns, burns with the cold of Siberian winter and an Arctic storm all at once. The cold-fire races through him, whiting out the pain, his emotions, everything until he only has the sharp focus that he must, must save his handler and nothing in the world can stop him. 

His fingers, now whole, wrap around the smug captain’s neck, squeezing hard enough to crush the man’s windpipe. He pulls free from the chains as if they were paper, and is on Chuckles less than a second later, snatching the hunting knife to draw it across the man’s neck, ear to ear. There’s an alarm, and the sound of an army of boots, and Clint steps over Phil, Hrotti appearing unbidden in his hands. 

He doesn’t remember the rest. 

When he comes to he’s restrained in a SHIELD hospital bed. He feels sore all over, but rather than the painful itch of recovering scars, his muscles throb with the dull ache obtained after an over-strenuous workout. His eyes dart around, and he takes in the room tactically, before his gaze settles on Coulson, who’s resting in the bed next to his. He sucks in a breath at the bandage around the man’s shoulder and torso, and he stares at the small stain on the blue wrapping. 

When he looks up again, Coulson is awake and returning his appraising stare through one unswollen eye. “Welcome back, Barton.”

He clicks his tongue, mouth suddenly dry. He pulls at the straps, but finds them effective, even stronger than the usual set. “I was gone,” he asks, trying to work his way out of the bondage. Coulson levers himself up and gingerly stands. Clint can’t stop squirming, but he also can’t take his eyes off the man. After an excruciating five minutes as his handler crosses the room, Phil releases the strap over his right wrist. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“They weren’t there to protect me,” is the soft reply. As Clint undoes the other restraints, Coulson brings a rolling chair over and carefully sits in it, wincing a little. Clint fights the urge to jump off the bed once he’s free, instead makes protesting noises. “I’ve handled worse,” the agent chides. Then, “do you remember what happened?”

Clint shakes his head and looks down at his hand. It’s perfectly healed. He can breathe normally, and after lifting the dressing gown, he can’t find any scar by his ribs. “No,” he says hollowly. “I remember Chuckles going for your stomach and then,” he searches, but all he finds is white. His memory is completely blank. He shrugs, and offers a shaky grin. This has happened before, in the heat of an op where he completely zones out save for the mission objectives. 

He’s never looked so good afterward though. The only sign of damage are bruises on his upper arms. “We got out,” he says unnecessarily. 

Coulson lets out a slow sigh through his nose. “You broke your chains, healed, and defended our position.”

“They had AK’s,” he says dumbly. He should be riddled with holes. 

“I know,” is all Phil says. “By the time the extraction team arrived, you’d wiped out most of the cell. Senator Wright was begging for assistance when you shot him in the back.” He holds up his good hand. “Four times.”

“He was the cell leader.”

Coulson pats his shoulder. “I know.” He clears his throat. “You refused to relinquish me to the medics after carrying me out. Our own weapons had no effect. It took five agents to pull me away. And you wouldn’t calm down until someone hit you with a taser.”

That sounds familiar. Too familiar. Didn’t he write a mission report about… Feeling the blood drain from his face, he grabs the nearest sharp object—an IV needle—and tries to stab himself in the forearm. 

The needle breaks upon his skin. 

His hand shakes as Coulson takes the remains from him. He feels his whole body start to vibrate, and he looks at Phil, pleads with nothing more than a look, begs with a tight grasp of his wrist. “Please…”

Despite his injury, Phil is surprisingly strong, and is able to pull him into a careful one-armed hug. Clint clings to him and tries to bring himself under control. “Your blood’s changed.” He speaks neutrally, flat. “It appears Loki has gifted you the rights of an Alfar. According to Thor, it’s given you Asgard-lite abilities.” There’s no humor in the joke. 

And Clint can feel it, the new strength, the new potential of his reflexes. “I can take a bullet.” Even his voice doesn’t sound like his own now. 

“Probably not point-blank, but yes. It seems to have a healing proponent as well.” The hand reaches up to cup the back of his neck. Clint closes his eyes, letting the last of the tremors fade into the floor. “I’m glad it saved you.”

Clint’s eyes snap open and he backs into the bed, his eyes wide. “What?”

Phil looks away. “You…we were going to die. As your friend, I’m glad it saved you.” When he brings his head up, Phil is gone, leaving only Coulson. “As your handler and an Agent, I intend to make Loki suffer for everything he’s doing to you.”

He fights the shakes back this time, fiercely grasping onto Coulson’s words. They watch each other, and finally, finally something settles in Clint. With a brush of his fingers, he silently helps Coulson stand and get back to his bed. “Get some rest, boss,” his voice is quiet, and he watches over the man until his breathing evens out. He takes the just abandoned seat and stares at his hands. 

This time, Loki’s gift has taken his humanity. And the worst part is he can live with it. He can. Without it, Phil would be dead. And that, that is just unacceptable. So just this once he acknowledges that he’s grateful for Loki’s generosity. 

He can feel his soul break as the prayer escapes him. 

5\.   
He tries not to surrender completely to his new abilities, but he can target faster without the scope. By skipping from nest to nest he’s made himself even more invaluable in the Avengers fights. He can’t help that he’s faster, stronger, more durable, and not using it against the forces of HYDRA or the latest invader of the month is just stupid. Clint knows he’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

Even if Coulson gives him a sour look each time he uses Hrotti. He still uses his own bow, and the special sets of arrows SHIELD and Tony provide. But sometimes he runs out of arrows, or the standard set just can’t penetrate alien armor. Hrotti’s arrows can fly through an armored Kree without losing speed. Not even Tony’s best R&D has figured out how to do that. 

He tries to hold off the panic after each battle, the internal turmoil that whispers he’s becoming more and more Loki’s soldier. They’re tools, he reminds himself. He is not selling his soul. He is not turning evil. He’s an Avenger, and he won’t surrender any advantage for his damned pride. Not when it means saving the lives of his team. 

There are moments he even convinces himself of that. 

He can’t stay in Stark Towers with the other Avengers. He wants to, but the niggling in his mind keeps him afraid of what he’ll do if he is compromised. SHIELD lets him remain in private quarters, eat in the mess hall, train in their gym. He even pretends to not notice the security detail discretely keeping watch on him. He doesn’t mind that no one speaks with him, not even the base psychs. And he’s used to people not meeting his eyes. He’s a killer, an Avenger, an agent of Nick Fury. It’s to be expected. 

Fury doesn’t treat him any different, at least. Neither does Coulson. If anything Phil makes an effort to show he’s still the same Clint. They eat at least one meal a day together, and when Clint goes for a run, Phil is right there beside him. It’s nice, to have at least one person on his side. Sometimes, he lets himself reach out, ground himself by touching his handler. 

Coulson lets him. Phil will even shoot him the occasional smile. 

On the year anniversary of the night Loki took him, Clint spends half the day on the range, refusing to use Hrotti, his superior strength, everything. Natasha takes the stall beside him, and they practice hitting the targets in the same place repeatedly. He succeeds, of course. She follows him into an empty office for lunch, and they spend the afternoon in each other’s company. Sometimes their feet connect. Sometimes she grabs his arm. 

Mostly, Clint thinks about everything but that night, and the time following. The easy way he allied with SHIELD’s enemies to help Loki and bring down the helicarrier and everyone on board. Or the pain of the week after when no one at SHIELD would look at him as anything but a traitor. Or how, by the end of the month, he was begging Coulson for a mission, any mission, to take him away and focus on something other than the Tesseract events. 

No, Clint frowns as Natasha squeezes his wrist. He doesn’t think about any of that. 

He makes his way through the ducts to Coulson’s office for dinner. Unlike Fury, whose office is at the top by the bridge, Coulson’s is deep in the bowels of the ship, in one of the most protected areas. Unless you knew the office number, it’d be easy to miss, and that’s how Fury planned it. Agent Coulson, Fury’s secret weapon and SHIELD prince. 

When he settles into the nest just above it Coulson lets out a quiet hum. It’s a small signal, an acknowledgement of his presence. Clint gets into a comfortable position and lets himself be lulled by the sounds of swift typing and the scratch of pen on paper. He zones out, lets his mind go blank, and he forgets. Now, now he can forget that entire fucked up encounter. All he had to do was make himself invisible to the world so he could feel safe again. 

It’s hours later when the sound of a door closing snaps him out of it. Coulson didn’t make contact, is the first thought to cross his mind. The second is that he’s invisible. He doesn’t know how; like the bow, like his eyes, he just knows. He can feel it, a cloak, an aura, clinging to him. 

Coulson thought he’d left, had no idea he was still in his nest. He eases his way down the vent and into the room. The security system that no one except Fury, Coulson, and Hill are supposed to know about with invisible lasers and no less than three hidden cameras doesn’t go off. A glance at the keypad shows it’s armed. He takes a few steps around, sits on the desk, even waves a hand in front of the most obvious camera. Nothing. He’s not being seen by electronic eyes. 

Swallowing, he goes back through the vent and works his way through to one of the less traversed hallways. The one person present walks right by him, then does a double-take. “Sir?” As if he’s not sure Clint’s actually there. He just smirks and heads towards the exit. It’s a hell of an ability. 

Magic right up a trickster’s alley. 

\+ 1.  
It’s just past midnight when he leaves the helicarrier, and the moment he’s outside SHIELD he feels it. A calling in his mind. Desire, pride, greed. It stokes the anger, makes his breath catch, and he’s running without thought straight to the heart of New York. He knows this feeling, knows the ethereal caress, and lets out a snarl. 

He doesn’t even notice the passage of time. The world passes by in a blur, blood pumping hot as he leaps and ascends a fire escape, the pound of metal echoing in his ears after he’s reached the roof of the apartment. He spins on his heel on the landing with Hrotti and an arrow aimed at the bastard’s head. His ragged breathes are from his rage, not the run, he realizes, and he tries to swallow it, tries to tune it out and settle into his operative mindset. 

Loki smiles. “Hawkeye.”

His first shot misses by a hair’s breadth, not even nicking the god’s hair. He growls and fires again. And again. And again and again. Each shot missing by millimeters, nanometers. Each shot chips at him. He hits his targets, he never misses. It’s who he is. It’s what he is. And Loki, Loki is mocking him. It doesn’t look like he’s moving, doesn’t appear and disappear with his illusions. But every time, every shot, misses. 

“A little off your game, my spirited warrior?”

His possession strikes too close, breaks his concentration, and his yell is instinctive as he charges forward. He skids to a stop with the point of his next arrow inches from Loki’s forehead. He bares his teeth, wanting to see fear, uncertainty, anything in the bastard’s eyes. All he sees is smug arrogance. He pulls the arrow back another notch and his knuckles turn white as he struggles to let go, to just fire and end this now. 

He reaches up and strokes the bow. “The dwarves are master craftsmen. I haven’t laid my eyes on this work for eons.” He sounds almost fond. 

The arm holding the arrow shakes, and Clint feels his jaw clench. He wants to release it. He orders his fingers to let go. He glares at them. He can do this. He must do this. He is not some pawn. He is not a marionette. He is Clint Barton. 

Loki’s fingers brush over the tip of the arrow. 

It’s too much. The scream stars as a growl, echoing into the cityscape. He’s trembling so hard he releases his grip on the bow, stumbling back. The weapon vanishes instantly, and Clint charges forward, knives at the ready. 

This time Loki is laughing as he ducks and dodges, weaving away from every swipe, every stab. He’s sparred with Thor since his blood burned, and he knows while he isn’t as strong, he is as fast. He knows he’s matching Loki speed for speed, but like the arrows, the god—demon—son of a bitch is just narrowly avoiding his strikes. 

But Loki isn’t an assassin who knows how to pen in enemies, not without his illusions, that’s what he’s learned from Thor’s stories. And Clint is second only to Natasha in staging endings. Frustrated and distracted as he is, he’s still a top agent, and after five minutes he’s got Loki backed against the ventilation shaft. He doesn’t let out a sound this time, just strikes for the bastard’s heart. 

Only to stop just a hair above the man’s breastplate. His fist shakes with effort, until he flings it away. “Argh!” He tosses the other blade aside and tries to grab the god around his neck, strangle him, crush his larynx like he did that Nazi-bastard. Instead, his muscles lock up, and he bites back another yell as his gaze meets Loki’s smile. 

“You can’t, you know.” He says it softly, but then his smile turns feral. “Did you really think the Widow could free my influence so simply?” He reaches forward and trails a hand over Clint’s chest. “This was mine the instant I claimed you.”

Clint forces himself to step back. “You...you haven’t affected Selvig, or anyone else! They’re free!” He’s trying to control his anger, regain control. 

It’s a lot harder than it usually is. 

Loki turns and waves the words away. “What use have I for the sciences of Midgard? An archer.” He smirks. “A hawk. That is something worth keeping.” 

Clint takes another step, and desperately assesses his surroundings. He’s only twenty feet from the roof edge. He could jump. It’s no where near as high as high Stark Tower. He could make it. “So how’d you do it,” he grinds out. Keep him talking, Clint thinks. “Thor says you’re imprisoned. The staff is sealed. You have no power.”

“There are rules in magic, and rules in prison. And when the two meet,” he spreads his arms and bows. “I gifted you part of me. I had hoped to bring it out properly, once I was upon my throne.” He shrugs. “Plans change. I was gone. But my essence,” he moves closer, “my seidr, remained. Or did you think I chose you for my bed simply for your looks?”

Clint freezes, his stomach twisting inside him. “I never-“

“Never what?” The tone has changed from teasing to vicious. “Never supplicated yourself as an offering to your god? Never brought me to the shadows and spread before me? Never let me touch you and make you beg for all to hear?” He smiles again, warm, friendly. “You offered your loyalty freely, and I sealed it with relish.”

His head screams at him as the memory of that night floods his mind. God, he’d repressed it. Repressed how much he wanted to please him, repressed the way everyone had looked at him, had known what he was. And it’s clear in his mind, that one moment. 

_“I am eternally yours.”_

_“Yes,”_ is the rough, final reply, followed by the memory of Loki filling him, satiating him in a way he’s never been before.

There was no staff. There was no Tesseract. It was just Loki’s pure, untainted magic. 

When he comes to he finds himself on his knees, the remains of his dinner on the roof before him. A hand wipes his mouth and tilts his chin up, so he’s looking into Loki’s eyes, now glowing green. “You remember, my warrior?” 

He wants to refuse him, to deny it. But a hoarse, “Yes,” is dragged from his throat. 

“And yet you fight me.” He leans down and brushes his lips against Clint’s forehead. “Stop fighting, my hawk. The seidr within will not be quelled. Your pact is eternal. Surrender.”

His mind is thrashing, trying to keep fighting, to think of the team, of Phil and Natasha, of everything, anything to refuse his demand. Even so, he can feel his soul twisting, bending, being unmade by Loki’s again. A quiet sob escapes him as Loki strokes a hand through his hair. 

“Surrender,” he whispers into Clint’s ear.

Clint shuts his eyes. He will refuse. He will fight. He will deny Loki to the very end. 

He feels himself shatter as he submits with a quiet, “I’m yours.”


End file.
